3

Carlos turned around, his 250-pound obese body struggling to twist his neck.

At the end of the street, a group of people were running frantically. But what followed them was not a person.

Those things used to be human, but they are no longer.

The mutant infected by the rampaging fungus retains the basic human torso, but its skin turns a morbid gray-green, its eyeballs turn completely white, and its mouth opens to an unbelievable angle, revealing bloody gums.

What's most terrifying is their speed.

These monsters crawl on the ground using all four limbs, moving as fast as leopards.

"Damn it, what the hell is that?" Carlos drew his .45 pistol from his waist.

The first mutant pounced on a fleeing office worker. Its sharp nails instantly tore through the man's suit and flesh, ripping out his internal organs which spilled onto the ground.

"Fire! Fire!" Carlos roared.

The gangsters raised their AK-47s and began firing. Bullets struck the mutants' bodies, splattering black blood everywhere, but the monsters seemed to feel no pain and continued their charge.

More screams came from all directions. Not just at the end of the street, but throughout Brooklyn, sirens and cries for help began to ring out.

I checked my watch: 30 seconds after the apocalypse began.

Everything was exactly the same as in my memories of my past life.

I picked up the walkie-talkie: "Derek, activate full building lockdown. Sarah, check the ammunition reserves at the fourth-floor observation post."

"Roger that!" Derek's voice came through the walkie-talkie, tinged with obvious fear. "Boss, what's going on outside?"

"The end of the world." I replied simply, "Just stick to plan."

The battle downstairs had turned into a one-sided massacre.

The number of mutants is growing exponentially. Every human bitten to death will rise again after 30 seconds and join the ranks of the infected. Carlos's dozen or so subordinates are facing an ever-increasing number of monsters.

"Retreat! Retreat to the vehicle!" Carlos fired as he retreated, his gold teeth trembling with fear.

But it was too late.

A mutant crawled out of the side sewer and pounced on the nearest henchman. The man didn't even have time to scream before his throat was ripped open. Blood gushed out like a fountain, staining the entire street red.

"Help! Help!" Another henchman was surrounded by three mutants. His AK-47 was out of bullets, so he could only smash it with the butt of the gun. But the mutants were much stronger than normal people, and the butt of the gun was broken in an instant.

I watched as these guys, who were about to harvest my organs while I was still alive just a minute ago, were now turning into monster food.

There was no sympathy, no fear, only a calm sense of satisfaction.

This is the power of information asymmetry.

Carlos dragged his obese body toward the SUV, but a mutant fell from the sky and landed squarely on his back. The Mexican fat man let out a pig-like scream as sharp claws ripped open his fat belly, spilling a mixture of yellow fat and red blood onto the ground.

"No! No! I have money! I have lots of money!" Carlos was still trying to bribe the monster.

The mutant's response was to bite his neck.

Carlos's screams abruptly ceased as his artery was severed.

Thirty seconds later, the 250-pound Mexican mob boss stood up again. But he was no longer human; he had grayish-green skin, completely white eyes, and a bloodshot mouth.

The Carlos mutant joined the attack on the other humans.

Three minutes later, there were no more living gangsters on the street.

The doors of five black SUVs were wide open, and the cars were empty. AK-47s, grenades, ammunition boxes, and torn human limbs were scattered on the ground.

The mutants began searching for new targets.

Their gazes fell upon the apartment building where I was.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

A heavy thud came from the first floor. A dozen mutants began frantically ramming the blast door, but the 8-inch-thick composite armor remained unmoved.

I went to the kitchen and took a tomahawk steak from the refrigerator.

The internal circulation generator is working normally, and the induction cooker is operating stably. I put a piece of butter in a frying pan, waited for it to melt, and then put the steak in.

"Sizzle..."

The sound of beef being heated to high temperatures and the roars of the mutants downstairs created a strange contrast.

"Boss!" Derek's voice came through the walkie-talkie, "Those monsters are banging on the door!"

"Let them crash." I flipped the steak over. "That door can withstand a tank cannon; what are a few mutants?"

The surveillance screens showed that the entire Brooklyn area was in chaos.

Cars collided and caught fire, pedestrians were chased and bitten, and police gunfire erupted but quickly ceased. New York City, a megacity of 8 million people, was turning into a wasteland at an incredible speed.

My steak was seared to perfection, caramelized on the outside and still slightly pink inside. I cut off a piece and put it in my mouth; the premium Angus beef released a rich, delicious flavor.

The banging sounds from downstairs continued, but the blast door showed no signs of loosening.

I opened a bottle of 1982 Lafite red wine and poured myself a glass.

This bottle of wine was bought with my last savings, specifically to celebrate this moment—I survived, and those who humiliated me are about to pay the price.

"To the new world." I raised my glass in homage to the hellish scene on the monitor screen.

Just as I was enjoying my first meal of the apocalypse, I heard footsteps in the hallway.

Many footsteps.

Surveillance footage shows tenants on the second and third floors gathering in the hallway. They are holding kitchen knives, baseball bats, and fire extinguishers, their faces filled with panic and despair.

The one leading the group was the accounting staff member on the second floor—Mark Johnson.

I'll never forget that skinny bastard. On the fifth day of the apocalypse in my previous life, when the zombie horde suddenly appeared, everyone else ran away quickly. It was this guy, usually the most cowardly, who, in his attempt to save his own life, pushed me to the ground. I lay among the broken glass, trying to get up, but my legs wouldn't obey me, and I was eventually torn apart by the zombies.

Now, the murderer who killed me is standing downstairs.

"We need to unite!" Mark shouted. "There's been a terrorist attack outside; we should help the victims!"

I almost choked on the red wine.

This coward is talking about helping others.

"But the door on the first floor is locked!" a female tenant cried. "How are we supposed to get out? How can we help those people?"

"That lunatic on the roof definitely has the key!" another male tenant pointed to the ceiling. "He's been hoarding so much stuff lately, he must know what's going to happen!"

"Yes! Let's go find him! Let's make him open the door!"

I put down my wine glass and picked up my M4A1 carbine.

It seems that in addition to dealing with the mutants outside, I also have to deal with the internal threats.

The footsteps were getting closer.

Mark knocked on my door.

"Hey! Brother upstairs! Open the door and let's talk! There's someone outside who needs help!" His voice trembled; he was clearly terrified, but still trying to appear brave.

I did not respond, but simply observed the outside through the bulletproof peephole.

A dozen or so tenants gathered outside my door, their eyes filled with panic and anger. The panic stemmed from fear of unknown dangers, and the anger from dissatisfaction with my "selfish" behavior.

"I know you're in there!" Mark continued knocking. "You can't just think of yourself! We're neighbors! We should help each other!"

Helping each other?

I remember how that bastard "helped" me.

I picked up the megaphone and spoke coldly through the door: "Get out."

"What?!" Mark roared, "You selfish bastard! People are dying outside! Are you just going to stand by and watch them die?"

"They're already dead," I said, "and you'll die if you don't get out of here."

"Bullshit! I just saw someone calling for help! We should..."

"Enough!" a female tenant interrupted Mark. "If he won't open the door, we'll figure it out ourselves!"

"Yes!" another tenant chimed in, "The fire escape! We can go down through the fire escape!"

Mark's eyes lit up: "The fire escape is chained, but I have an axe!"

I saw through the surveillance footage that this group of idiots started moving towards the fire escape on the first floor.

Mark ran back to his room and grabbed a fire axe.

"Mark, are you sure you want to do this?" an older tenant asked worriedly. "It looks dangerous outside..."

"We can't just sit here and wait to die!" Mark raised his axe. "Those people need help!"

How ironic.

The coward who pushed me down in my past life to save his own life is now pretending to be a hero.

I contacted Derek via walkie-talkie: "The surveillance footage shows someone is trying to breach the fire escape. Prepare for defense."

"Understood!" Derek's voice was tense. "What do you need me to do?"

"Do nothing , just wait for me to come down. "

The surveillance screen showed Mark frantically hacking at the chains on the fire escape door with an axe.

The clanging of metal echoed in the corridor, each sound like a countdown to death.